


Can't You Spare Just a Day for the Weeping

by ornateslime



Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses, Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, Heavy Angst, M/M, More ships to be added, Rebirth, Reincarnation, Time Travel, more tags to be added as this goes on, no beta we die like Glenn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-10-31
Updated: 2020-10-31
Packaged: 2021-03-08 23:20:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,983
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27294826
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ornateslime/pseuds/ornateslime
Summary: Dimitri feels his breath whoosh out of his lungs in one great tumbling escape as he recognizes the castle- the kingdom’s palace, the place of his birth. The royal castle of Fargus, located in Fhirdiad. Built by King Loog and additions added on by his descendants. ‘Hogwarts’ wasn’t always just ‘Hogwarts’ as all of his research had led him to believe. Then again his time had been long forgotten.
Relationships: Dimitri Alexandre Blaiddyd/Lorenz Hellman Gloucester
Kudos: 5





	Can't You Spare Just a Day for the Weeping

Harry didn’t notice it at first, but over the summer it’s been getting steadily worse- ‘it’ being the feeling that something’s not quite right. That a puzzle piece from a completely different puzzle somehow slotted into Harry’s own and that he had just let it fall there and let the pieces of his own puzzle figure out how to fit themselves around the foreigner piece. And that puzzle piece was something that is going to forever be ruining the picture, but he can’t find himself willing to rip out the jagged, sad, and lonely piece out. Harry at this point isn’t even sure he could pry that incorrect puzzle piece out. Nevertheless, something is wrong.

(However, there was the golden feeling of the little piece belonging- Belonging like Harry himself never had. Belonging there because it is just as much a part of him as he was of the little puzzle piece that was festering and corrupting its comrades. Twisting them to fit around itself and painting a picture that Harry still doesn’t quite understand.)

And sitting here, on the swing in the rapidly becoming night-stricken park on Magnolia Road, Harry ponders what could possibly be even wrong. His instincts are telling him that there is quite a lot wrong at the moment, thank you very much! This, however, isn’t very helpful at all.

One option for the obvious culprit of wrongdoing is the vague letters from everyone that only served to infuriate Harry, as they never actually told him anything. Another being that his anger was getting rapidly harder to control, even though Harry did, objectively, know that he didn’t have the longest fuse on the anger that he’s packing around, it is rapidly becoming a topic of worry for him. Normally, (if you could count any part of this as normal) Harry doesn't think he would have noticed the bomb fuse shorting. There was, however, something that was going on that was making him increasingly hyper-aware of himself. In fact, just yesterday, when he was trying to spy on the telly, for anything strange or mysterious, he realized how loud he was breathing, just how much noise he was making, how squeaky his old shoes of Dudley’s were- in specific, the ones with the soles peeling off the bottom of the trainers and how unseemly and how much of a hindrance they were for Harry to get anything done.

Short story, the trainers didn’t have a good sole anymore thus they didn’t grip the ground as much as he’d like.

(Harry distinctly remembers the first time this- this hyper-awareness happened. He was vaguely thinking about how best it was to, perhaps, assassinate them (The Dursleys), and somewhere along the line the vague thought of; Perhaps poison (Though he isn’t any good at the arcane arts) came along in the debate process. They shouldn’t be as hard as killing Edelgard… Then again, she was quite high-raking. That and along with her having two crests did her no favors of being an easy kill- This invasive thought served to snap him out of whatever daze he happened to fall into. Harry was completely disgusted with himself for even thinking about poisoning the Dursleys and avoided trying to stalk the telly for a straight shot of three days afterward.)

So, here he is, after getting kicked out of Aunt Petunia’s, rather large, hydrangea bush in the front garden. Harry venomously reflects that the pink bushes of flowers should be white, rather than the pink that they were boasting. Make the message of them being ‘the absolute best in the neighborhood’ get across better. Make it seem even more so, that they were boasting about their ‘perfect life’.

It’s only when Harry hears voices does he look up, coiling like a spring because he doesn’t even have a weapon on him (No sword or spear and no axe or hammer-). Only to recognize the vast shape of Dudley and the scrawny, wiry, almost rat-like figure of Piers Polkiss. Though Harry thinks bitterly, perhaps rat-like should be restrained to describing Pettigrew, specifically.

Harry finds himself hoping for a fight. Anything to unwind the coil of sparks in his chest, to ship off the incendiary, caustic, oily, inky, bubbling anger that’s coiling so tightly in his chest, that it hurts. 

(Though perhaps it isn’t just anger anymore, but some other emotion.)

Regardless, Harry finds himself mentally goading them into seeing him, defenseless at the park on Magnolia Road. Come on… look around… I’m here all alone… come and have a go. They, evidently, do not hear his voiceless taunts and turn ‘round the bend of Magnolia Road onto another street. Perhaps, that was for the best.

That thought does nothing for the coiling, burning anger that’s seeping its sluggish way through his chest and up his throat, down his legs and up to his fingers. The feeling of the bitter biting anger choking him, made Harry think that the anger- the anger that’s slithering its way through his throat, only to stop halfway and suffocate him with its wrath is something akin to a potion, an angry, poorly-done, seething, boiling over potion. But a potion it is, nonetheless. (Perhaps poison would be more akin to what the ‘potion’ had become).

Harry makes to get up and starts trailing after Dudley’s gang when he hears the last one of them leaving call him ‘Big D’. And, as ‘Big D’ could imply a lot of things- from Dudley’s, quite frankly, astounding weight and girth, to other things that happen to be… less pleasant matters. 

(At least less pleasant to think about, and Harry really doesn’t want to consider any of the other options other than the fact that the ‘Big’ part of ‘Big D’ was talking about his weight)

So, naturally, after hearing such a horrible nickname, Harry cannot for the life of himself, not call Dudley, ‘Big D’. He had to do it, at least once. So he started after Dudley, humming as tunelessly as ever and as soon as he’s within ear-shot of Dudley, shouts:

“Hey, Big D!”

Dudley, as stupid as ever, turns at the sound of the nickname, thinking that Harry was one of his gang members.

“Oh,” Dudley grunts out. “It’s you.”

Harry from there on plays the nice game of ‘taunt Dudley’ to ship off the slimy, acidic anger that’s coiled like a cobra ready to strike. It works. For a bit, that is. Soon enough, Harry’s taunting must’ve stroked some sort of absolute brilliance within Dudley- the poor sod- and he starts mocking Harry, right back. Harry bristles, thinking back on it, it must have been the wand that Harry pulled out, at Ickle Diddykin's express permission of course. After all, why else would Dudley bring up the fact that Harry’s been hiding his wand on him.

“Not this brave at night are you?” He sneers at Harry, evidently having enough of Harry’s acidic anger shipments. Harry mourns the loss of being able to ship off his anger so easily. And then, Dudley’s words hit him. Not so brave at night? Whatever does that even mean?

Harry decides on the most appropriate route and snarks right back, “This is night, Diddykins. That’s what they call it when it goes all dark like this.”

Dudley, plainly, doesn’t like this response. A vein is throbbing on his temple, just like Uncle Vernon is with his tells, then (like father like son). Shame Harry can’t see what color Diddykins is in this darkness, Harry would’ve loved to see if he’s gone puce yet. 

“I mean when you’re in bed!” Dudley, finally, after what seemed to be a moment of struggling snarls. 

His words cause Harry to stop in his tracks, completely unimpressed. What does he mean? He gives his cousin a nice, long look and through the shadows can see what Dudley is, possibly, wearing what he deems to be a triumphant smirk. 

“What d’you mean, I’m not brave in bed?” Harry asks and then without a second thought plows on. “What - am I supposed to be frightened of pillows or something?”

Dudley’s triumphant smirk doesn’t even dim at these words, if anything, it seems to grow brighter. “I heard you last night,” he says breathlessly. “Talking in your sleep. Moaning.”

Harry feels the coil of anger fizz up, rearing its ugly head. Although, it’s not quite like anger anymore. More like… a mixture of things. Anger is definitely in there, in enough volume that it’s palpable. But there’s other things and something overrides that anger. A feeling of pain spreading across his chest, along with the feeling of his stomach dropping in fear, ice water pouring down his back- the funny thing being, he can’t even recall exactly what he dreamt of. What is there to be scared of, then, if he can’t remember it?

“What d’you mean?” Harry asks, voice hollow. 

Dudley barks out a sharp almost sinister laugh at Harry. “Don’t kill Lorenz! Don’t kill Lorenz!” He says in a high-pitched cruel moniker of Harry’s voice, it doesn’t even sound anything like him. Though, Harry suspects, that it’s not the tone that’s burrowing its way under his skin- it’s the way he’s spitting out the name. With complete and absolute disrespect.

(Long purple hair, he can still remember in the academy days when it was in that short, horrid haircut. In fact, he still regularly teases Lorenz about his hair choices back in the monastery. It was absolutely wretched, the way he cut his hair. Although, now it’s nothing but a fond memory. 

He quite likes how long Lorenz’s hair is getting. But then again, he’s always been fond of Lorenz’s hair in general.

His fingers are absentmindedly playing through the strands of Lorenz’s hair, combing, braiding, undoing, repeat. It’s quite soothing. Lorenz is lounging around on the floor- something he would have scoffed at doing when he was in the monastery, ‘I am from the noble house of Gloucester! How dare you insinuate that I will sit on- on something so uncouth!’

He needs to cover up his laugh at the thought of Lorenz’s past self throwing a fit over the fact that, yes, in the future you do sit on the floor in front of the hearth. 

Lorenz looks up from the book he’s pursuing in favor of seeing what’s so ridiculously funny.

Then.

Suddenly, there isn’t anything to laugh about as the doors get rammed through. He doesn’t have his lance- he doesn’t have any lance on hand much less Areadbhar, and neither does Lorenz- and oh Goddess the war was supposed to be over! 

At least Lorenz knows offensive magic, maybe he can get out of here safe.

He punches one of the offenders square on the nose, he feels a satisfying crack underneath his fist. 

(He’s restraining his strength and he knows it- Lorenz knows it)

One of them whirls a sword onto Lorenz- Lorenz, he doesn’t see it.

A voice, quite unlike Harry’s own is ripped from his throat. 

“Don’t!”

(He’s already lost Dedue, he can’t lose Lorenz- not when things are finally settling back down, not when he’s finally moved past Dedue’s death and found happiness with someone else.

That was Dedue’s last words to him, to find love and happiness with someone else- he had said it like a cryptic omen. Looking back on it Dedue probably knew that he was going to die on that mission.

There had been rumors of assassins and thugs crowding the roadways between the three major holds back then after all. It was a war, for Goddesses' sake! And Dimitri should have gone with him, he should have been better, should have realized that they were all going to get wiped out on that battlefield.)

A scream of anguish shredding his lungs and clawing its way off his tongue through the room as Lorenz gets impaled- straight through the heart, just like he pierced Edelgard all those years ago- and Lorenz doesn’t even scream. He doesn’t even have the time to scream. He just looks at his chest, hiccups, blood dripping out of his mouth onto his chest like a red river that just wouldn’t stop and crumples to the floor. 

He doesn’t even think about what was going on as he bombards the attackers.

Anguish and anger are all he can focus on. They are the only things keeping him in touch with reality. 

Then.

Pain blossoming across the expanse of his back, seeping through his clothing and skin, crawling through his organs, into his lungs, up to his throat, and burning his eyes. 

He barely has enough time to turn around and see his attacker- all that really clicks is orange hair.

He’s on his knees, fighting to stay up, fighting to breathe. 

In one fell swoop, an axe connects with his neck. His body finally collapses as his vision snaps to black.)

“Whose Lorenz- your boyfriend?” Dudley continues, oblivious to what’s going on in Harry’s mind's eye.

Something corkscrewed tight in Harry’s stomach snaps at these words. It’s like the coiling, tightly-spun cobra finally has had enough of the rapping and tapping on the glass. The spitting snake writhing and beating its body around in his chest is ready to finally attack and who cares how much damage it does. As long as the enemy’s down. It's an attack that it’s going to take with glee. Finally hitting Dudley back for the last miserable fourteen years.

“One does wonder,” Harry muses with a faux calm, the words tumbling off his tongue without his discretion- he licks his chapped lips. “Dudley, if you’ve ever had anyone, that you’ve loved.” Harry’s lips start to curl into a grimace- he highly doubts that Dudley ever has had anyone that he’s loved (it’s a disturbing thing to think about, in the end). He plays with the wand in his hands, rolling it between his palms. Harry suddenly has the vague- sort of cryptic, really- impression that he may or may not even need his wand to execute the things that he may or may not want to do to Dudley. 

Harry shoots a sidelong glance at Dudley and continues when it seems the overstuffed walrus isn’t going to say anything. 

“Observing you now, Dudley… I admit I am finding it quite hard to imagine that, well, you have ever truly loved anyone.” Harry throws another glance at Dudley. “It makes me quite curious as to what motivates you to act like you’re the next heir to the throne. When in the end all you are is a child, who, currently, hasn’t actually accumulated the knowledge on what it’s like to love someone.” Another pause. “An admittedly rather spoilt child that still throws tantrums when things don’t go his way.” Harry’s voice near the end catches an edge. It’s nearly impossible not to when he can feel fourteen years' worth of searing anger bubbling up through his veins like an overshaken pop. Fizzing just beneath the surface, words clawing their way out of his throat, ripping out of his mouth, like flaming soldiers marching, doing as much harm as possible with their barbed swords. 

“You are on a path to nothing but-”

Dudley, the stupid buffoon, goes to verbally attack Harry again, he doesn't even respond to Harry’s tirade, just cuts him off. His face could be interpreted as flushed with anger if Harry squinted. He opens and closes his mouth a few times, then something seems to connect in his head and his smirk seems to be radiating triumph like a child got the candy they wanted. 

“So, he is your boyfriend, then?” Dudley hoots out a laugh and ambles on. His face lit up with malicious glee, his eyes shining with wicked giddiness.

“Wait until I tell Dad! You’ll-” Dudley suddenly cuts himself off when Harry's wand finds its way over Dudley’s heart. He backs up into the alleyway wall, panic setting in within his eyes when he realizes that he has nowhere to go- that Harry has him pinned.

“Don’t you point that thing at me!” Dudley cries out, like a frightened animal backed into a corner. 

“Don’t you ever talk about that again, Dudley.” Harry snarls at him, lip curling into a sneer of hatred once more. “Do you understand me?”

“Point that thing somewhere else!” 

“I said, do you understand me?”

“Point it somewhere else!”

“DO YOU UNDERSTAND ME?” 

“GET THAT THING AWAY FROM-” Dudley suddenly cuts himself off, with an odd, rattling, shuddering gasp. It was almost like he had suddenly been doused in icy water, but there wasn’t a bucket in sight.

Harry, still half-way in what seemed to be a sort of trance, feels a dementor's presence. He feels cold and alone. Dudley’s saying something to Harry, but Harry can’t be bothered to respond, much less hear him. The dementors are surrounding Harry, obviously deciding that Harry was the best option to feed off of. 

Long forgotten memories, ones that still lingered like half-whispered dreams are wretched forward.

Harry’s heart stutters, only, he’s not exactly Harry anymore. In fact, he has the feeling that ever since the Priori Incantatem effect in the duel took place- ever since that phoenix song cage happened when his wand interlocked with Voldemorts- that he hasn’t been exactly Harry at all, for a significant amount of time.

It would seem that something about the dementors ripped forward the person that Harry was yet wasn’t. 

Although, Harry knows that this person is exactly him, even if it doesn’t feel like it. 

Long repressed memories of thirty-five years. They wash out Harry quite easily. More experiences and stronger feelings, it’s not even Harry becoming possessed, it’s more like the dementors are just unlocking who Harry actually is. Who he has been all along.

That person that Harry is- has become- takes in a shuddering gasp, falling to his knees.


End file.
